


Elective I

by DarkShadeless



Series: Overseer Sar [40]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic
Genre: Culture, Humor, Sar's continuing battle with the galaxy at large, he really should've taken that vacation, my terrible sense of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-30
Updated: 2018-07-30
Packaged: 2019-06-17 15:59:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15464976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkShadeless/pseuds/DarkShadeless
Summary: Sar's good deeds put a few caltrops in his way. He's starting to notice a pattern here.





	Elective I

 

 

There are moments in life when someone blindsides you completely. Sar takes a certain amount of pride from the fact that that doesn’t happen to him often. Expecting a vibro blade as a default sure helps.

When he's caught wrong footed regardless its all the more jarring. In his defense, this particular shot came somewhat out of the left field.

Sar is dragged out of his class by the ear and his first thought is ‘what has Theron done now’. His second, when he is dumped in front of Hargrev’s unforgiving visage, if you ignore the mental swearing in between, is ‘Kriff, what have _I_ done?’

Nothing is forthcoming, at least nothing dire enough to have the man stare him down as if he’s trying to crack him open and look inside his brain. Sar needs to get up to no good more often. Apparently he gets into trouble with his boss whether he’s on good behaviour or not, might as well live to the fullest.

A small eternity passes that Hargrev spends visually dissecting his subordinate.

Sar uses it to contemplate the shine of the far wall. Innocent or not, he’s not fool enough to give anything away.

The inquisitor staples his fingers into a perfect triangle that means he has spent too much time practicing, or upbraiding his minions while unable to cause them physical agony. With the air of a well-versed interrogator leashed by Jedi nonsense, Hargrev makes a noise one cannot rightly call a sigh. It’s too akin to a reptile tasting the air for prey. “Overseer Sar.”

“Yes, my lord.” Always a good answer. A _great_ answer. People can’t choke you for it without looking like idiots.

“How many types of tnuti doma exist?”

 _Wait, what._ When did sweets come into this? “Uh-“ Hargrev’s ire flashes through the Force and hastens Sar’s tongue. He doesn’t fear the man, not _really_ , but he has no desire to provoke him either especially when he is _obviously having a break from reality_. “As many as you can dream up but technically fifteen?” If you went highbrow, anyway. Confectionary snobbery at its finest.

The distinct sound of grinding teeth assaults Sar's ears. “What is a chained echo?”

Definitely going off the rails here. Should he tell someone? Maybe medical? Scuttlebutt has it his overlord spent a good time of the Oricon campaign stranded under Dread Master influence. Maybe the kitehawks are coming home to roost, or something. “A style of painting, sir.”

Hargrev closes his eyes as if pained. “Do you perform the dzu ir asora in soprano or tenor?”

“It’s a dance not a song. My lord."

Deadly silence falls between them. If looks could kill Sar would bemoan a few holes in his beloved uniform. “You are a _fully educated_ Sith warrior.” Now that’s definitely an accusation, not a compliment. It should also have gone without saying. Sar’s of the _Thume_. If he had failed any part of his schooling he wouldn’t have made it off planet to embarrass his blood.

(Not with permission to bear their family name, at least. They are traditional not _fossilized_.)

As such he speaks Kittât fluently, is capable of performing a tea ceremony and a ritual sacrifice both, and knows his way around a craft and two styles of artistry. That's the bare minimum requirement. Anything less would be unacceptable.

In all honesty, Sar has never been the 'bare minimum' kind of guy.

“... yes?” The faint rumble at the edge of his sense for danger crystallizes into an almost cheerful chime.

 

 

“You’re doing a supplemental on arts and culture.”

“I’m _what_?”

“I can’t believe I’m saying that either. Get out. I expect a draft for the curriculum by _tomorrow_.”

 

 


End file.
